


Blankets Over Store-Bought Bones

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Schmoop, cured!meg, ex-demons moving into manhattan apartments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn’t expected her to want to move actual furniture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blankets Over Store-Bought Bones

He hadn’t expected her to want to move actual furniture.

“This place is shit,” She says with a huff, watching him grunt and pant as he lifts the couch (by himself) to where she’s designated. She takes a swig of some nameless bottle of alcohol and watches his movement, calculating. “But it’s cheap, and I’m not exactly made of money.”  
For what feels like the millionth time of the day, Castiel allows his gaze to drift over her form. It’s the same meatsuit he’d seen her in last—scratched and beaten and worse for wear, but still functional, still beautiful. The bottle blonde of her hair is fading, roots turning brown and strands turning murky and faded. Everything about her seems so faded now, worn down from pain and exhaustion, so much so it’s a wonder she’s still standing. It scares him a bit, makes his heart skip a beat, knowing that she’s so seemingly breakable, like one wrong touch or breath could send her crumbling into nothing. 

But she’d no doubt punch him if he said that, so he keeps quiet and shifts the couch again to make it straight.

When he’s finished positioning the couch where she’s instructed, he looks up to see her jut her chin over to an aged coffee table. He silently shuffles over and picks it up—it’s much heavier than he’d anticipated, but he hides his grunt so he doesn’t look weak in front of her—and half-drags, half-carries it to the center of the room.

For a while, the sound of the dragging table is the only thing in the room. His back aches and his heart pounds rapidly in his chest between stolen glances at Meg—(and she’s here, God, _she’s really here_ )—but she doesn’t say anything, so he doesn’t either. Dean once explained to him how awkward silences are a hallmark of the human condition, but he’s yet to experience it. He’s not sure what that says about him, but he doesn’t dwell on it much.

He’s turning around after setting the table, looking for more instruction and ignoring the ache in his back, when he’s suddenly pressed back, knees hitting the arm of the ratty old couch and falling back with a surprised _Oof_ before he’s suddenly placed with an arm full of warm ( _frail, skinny, broken_ ) body.

Her lips are chapped and rough where they’re pressed against his own, and the bruises there— _how are they still so fresh?_ —have to be smarting, but she pushes through, sliding her lips over his teasingly with a hint of barely tangible desperation.

His hands are slow, uncertain at first, like a colt learning to walk. He’s seen this a million times before on Sam’s laptop, thought about doing the things he’d seen with her a couple of times, but it feels alien all the same. She chuckles against his lips at his vain attempts at reciprocating touches, and he growls in response, newly human instinct kicking in as his hand buries itself in her tangled hair, the other pressing fiercely against the small of her back, keeping her close. A moan vibrates from her lips to his, sending a spark of somehow still unfamiliar pleasure up spine and a surge of confidence right up to his brain.

It feels like his skin is on fire, but it’s still not enough. Before, when things were right and made sense and his grace thrummed through him like his too loud blood does now, he’d never felt the need to shed his layers. It was like a protective barrier, as flimsy as they were, keeping him against the uncertainty of the world. But this now, not being able to press bare against her skin, is enough to have him tearing at his trench coat with unnecessary force.

She pulls back, chuckles out a breathless laugh that makes his heart skip and flutter. When she speaks, her eyes sparkle in a way he can’t read. “Wow, Clarence, where’s the fire?” 

Instinctively, he wants to correct her. There’s an irrational lump of fear in his throat that says she may not remember who he is—after her death, after his fall—threatening to burn his throat. But he swallows it as he pulls at her blood-stained jacket and shirt, vows to fuck her so hard she forgets _Clarence_ and can only scream _Castiel_. Vows to fuck her so hard he’ll have to push the furniture back where it’s supposed to be and have an excuse to stay there and stare at her a little while longer. 

It’s awkward, start to finish. He’s going off pure instinct and marathon porn knowledge, freaking out every time he elbows her or bites too hard, and she’s laughing at him all the while, but it’s still _perfect_. Her skin is bruised and soft, her breasts fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, and her tongue is wet and slick and all magic and tender. The wealth of pleasure outweighs the fact he has no experience and she’s too weak (though she wouldn’t admit it) to do much more, and by the time it’s over, Castiel feels boneless and weightless and dizzy in the best way.

Their shared panting echoes in the empty room, mixing in with the sound of busy Manhattan at night. Meg’s elbow is digging into his side and her hair is drying with sweat on the side of his face. Her body is too warm above him and he hopes she never moves.

After a few minuets (hours?), she lifts her head up and stares down at him an almost assessing gaze. It’s too open for her, eyes so wide it’s almost like she’s never seen him before ( _God, please, please remember me_ ), eyes shining from the bare bulb overhead. She looks young, even with all the cuts and bruises and yellowing wounds decorating her meatsuit (she must really like that one, to keep it even in this condition). 

And right then, right there, he wants to say it: _I love you, Meg_. Wants to grab her face in his hands (gently, can’t upset the wounds), pull her close and whisper the words against her lips, have her inhale them and keep them in her lungs forever. Wants to wrap her up in his arms and hold her close, press her against himself until they’re molded together and she can’t slip from his fingers again.

The thoughts are so all-consuming and scary that he nearly starts with him, but then she’s talking in her mischievous voice and the possessive fear recedes a little more. “You wanna order some pizza, Clarence?”

He has to study her face a bit—he knows what it should mean, what he wants it to mean, but he wanted the furniture-moving to mean something, too—but her teasing smirk is there, same place it’s always been (cut and chapped but tempting as ever), so he can’t be sure. The furniture-moving had evolved into more, so there’s no reason this shouldn’t, either.

He cups her face in his hands like his palms itch to and draws her in close for a kiss, too soft and deliberate to mean anything other than what they’re both avoiding, but she doesn’t punch him or pull away, even if she doesn’t melt into it like he wants. That’s fine, though. He’s got all the time in the world to teach her how to. 

“Yes,” he breathes out against her lips after a few seconds, and it sounds like a promise; like a prayer, “and don’t call me Clarence.”


End file.
